The EverChanging Hunt
by Jack Craiddial
Summary: Markov is a hunter, a man whose life is devoted to tracking, cornering, and killing the most dangerous of mutants that wander the Zone. However, Markov's greatest challenge may be creatures of the two-legged variety. Rated T for violence and brief cussig
1. A Strange Discovery

Part 1: Act 1;

The Road to the Military Warehouses, Abandoned Village, 1900 H, June 7, 2013

A foul wind stirred the trees. The brush crackled and then gave way to bayonet and rifle butt as

Lance Corporal Mitay Duchenkov of Duty slashed his way through a clump of thorny bushes.

Taking care to avoid the spiky plants, Mitay picked his way out of his makeshift blind and emerged

into a grassy field.

Directly ahead an abandoned Soviet cooperative farm squatted above an irradiated river filled with

a black sludge—his hunting grounds for today. It had taken three hours to finally reach this

secluded valley, with frequent stops to avoid detection by the many wild boars that roamed the area.

Damn, he thought as he surveyed the numerous buildings, if only my squad wasn't out with the flu!

A routine Artefact-hunting mission was made all the more dangerous without one's team, and it only

got worse when one went hunting in an unmapped area like this. Anything could happen in the

Zone, and unfamiliar territory made it all the more dangerous. Still, untouched hunting grounds

always made up for it in plentiful Artifacts.

Checking the magazine on his G36 assault rifle, Mitay sighted downrange towards a particularly

dank house and squeezed off two shots in rapid succession. The boards blocking the front door of a

small cottage blasted violently off their fittings in a cloud of sawdust and wood chips. He flipped

his magazine out, fished two more bullets out of his right pocket and popped them in.

After replacing the magazine, Mitay walked cautiously towards the village, occasionally throwing

bolts ahead of him. Fields like this one were notorious for being gravity-traps; places congested

with Anomalous gravity fields, to the detriment of a careless Stalker. Reaching the dilapidated

porch of what was once a farmhouse without incident, he peered through the darkness that shrouded

the front hallway.

Checking his semi-transparent magazine again unnecessarily, he reached into his hip sack and

pulled out a particularly rusty bolt. From another pouch on the opposite side came a length of

elastic band scavenged from a pair of discarded socks, a scrap of crusty leather from an old boot,

and a small lump of homemade adhesive putty. Sticking two bits of putty along the barrel of his

rifle and using the last bit to glue the fabric to the string, he experimented with his new creation.

Putting a bolt in the 'glove' of his makeshift slingshot, he fired into the field.

The bolt landed a good twenty meters from where he stood, triggering a cluster of Springboard

anomalies. Pleased with his invention, he pulled out a another bolt—a 'lucky' red one that he always

remembered to recover later—kissed it reverently, and fired it down the hallway. It bounced once,

kicking up a cloud of dust, and then lay still.

Immediately a shrill chattering sounded form the back room as a swarm of Tushkanos—ravenous,

flesh-eating rodents the size of cats—came shooting out of the house, startled by Mitay's 'lucky'

bolt. Mitay barely had time to leap out of the way as the Tushkanos rushed blindly out of the house

and into the field, where they were pulled into the crushing gravity field and then discorporated

violently, slinging bits of flesh in all directions.

Mitay stood in amazement at his incredible good fortune and then went into the house. The dark

hallway, now well lit by his headlamp, betrayed its years of wear and tear. Abandoned sometime

after the Chernobyl incident, many houses still showed signs of habitation: an old wooden rocking

chair, a rotting loom, a small wooden bowl or an obscure tool, all lost and forgotten in the panic

after the Chernobyl disaster.

After exploring the house and recovering his 'lucky' bolt, he exited out the back door and walked to

the middle of the lane. The co-op was a collection of houses, outbuildings, and storage sheds

collected together in a small village. Back in the thirties, the farm's heyday, the villagers had both

lived and worked, working the low wetlands into golden sheaves of wheat. He counted the

buildings, fourteen in all, too many to explore alone foot, especially with the sun setting.

Sun setting! Reminded of the time, he whipped out his PDA and began to compose a report on his

progress while gathering his things and backing towards to woods. His CO would be livid. Out late

again, what was I thinking! Not thinking, he corrected himself. Just as he was about to hit Send, he

heard a sound. Not the low, guttural shorting made by boars or the deep growling of a wild dog or

even the animal roar produced by the Snork, but something worse. The sound every Stalker fears,

the one they each hear in their deepest nightmares, an evil, haunting, primordial sound. It was a low,

mucus-filled rasping, quickening in excitement and then climaxing in a blood-curdling roar. The

sound of a Bloodsucker on the hunt.

Dropping his PDA into his pocket, he swept his head around, looking for the source of the rasping.

A horrible slurping noise, like crossed between sucking through a pierced straw and sniffling back a

nose full of snot followed the roar. Peeking around the corner of a house, he saw it: more than two

meters tall, covered in a beige mottled hide that was somewhere between scales and skin. Flaky

radiation burns and scars covered the naked creature from head to foot.

Its long, clawed arms and webbed feet strained against invisible bonds in vain, and its tautly

muscled form coiled and loosened in time with its roars of protest. It was impossible to discern

gender, as it was both bald-headed and flat-chested, and their reproductive organs, if these creatures

had such things, were not properly located for a creature so human-like.

The most foul part of the creature was its mouth. It had no jaw, merely had a hole where its throat

was, surrounded by long, blood-red tentacles for sucking blood. These hung loose know, useless

tools against a foe that would neither show itself nor stand and fight. The natural hunter had been

beaten at his own game. Mitay watched in amazement as the evil beast's breathing slowed and

finally stopped, its upper body slumping over into what must be a restful state for it.

Well, thought Mitay, I guess they sleep standing up. It was an incredibly useless and thoroughly

wasteful observation, as he should have grabbed his pack and made a run for it. Unfortunately,

Mitay's inquisitive nature got the better of him and he moved toward the slumbering beast instead

of away from it.

Mitay, unfortunately, was never very careful when he was exited about something, and an incurable

klutz when under pressure. That was why, he recounted later, he tripped over himself on perfectly

level ground . Fortunately for him, instead of getting a face full of dirt, he found himself trapped,

mid-fall, in an invisible viscous substance. It was an incredible sensation, like being caught in a

wall warm honey. His feet, still twisted up around each other, were free of the stuff.

Intrigued as he was, the sight of the collapsed Bloodsucker took priority, and he made an effort to

free himself. He couldn't move. His kicked his legs but he made no head way. The more he fought,

the more fatigued he became, and the sweat clung to him instead of falling off like it should. After a

moment of panicking, Mitay found he could move a little as long as he careful to keep his gestures

slow and deliberate, something his fellow captive had neglected to do.

Pulling his feet in after him, he half-walked, half-swam to a nearby porch. He found he could not

sit, but that he was quite comfortable standing. He would remark later that it was like laying down

upright, totally supported on all sides by warm, comfortable, nothingness. In fact, he was feeling so

comfortable he felt like a nap. With great effort he closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep. His mind

was blurring and the world was slowly spinning to a stop, like the last ride of the carnival merry-goround

from his distant childhood.

He began to sprawl, letting his weapon float gently a few centimeters away. His open thigh sack

spewed torrents of useful doo-dads: bits of metal, string, his bottle of putty, and several spent shell

casings he had been shaping into a letter opener slowly drifted out.

Finally, the last thing to go was his Artefact. An odd-shaped fist-sized lump the color of old asphalt,

the Jellyfish Artefact was a minor-class Artefact that, when held close to a body, would absorb and

eliminate radioactive particles, thus reducing the effects of radiation on that body. While the

Artefact was common enough, it was still expensive to purchase and rare enough to make replacing

it difficult.

He reached for it, but missed and hit his head on a rain gutter that had fallen partway down from its

fastenings on the roof. Pain exploded behind his eyelids. Moaning, he drifted, a current now

sweeping the field of invisible amber, slowly bearing him and hi varied equipment toward a grain

silo at the far end of the row of houses. I always liked silos, he thought dreamily.

A part of him knew then that something was wrong, and struggled helplessly to get him back to

consciousness. With supreme effort he cracked his eyes open, only to be blinded by a brilliant white

light and finally sink back into unconsciousness.


	2. Homecoming

Part 1: Act 2;

Outskirts of New Petrograd, Duty Territory; 1800 H, June 7, 2013

Markov the Hunter pounded his way up the familiar old asphalt road. It was like coming home.

His pack rustled softly as he cleared a small hump in the road and vaulted over a rusted old drainage

pipe. After many years and more than his share of danger and hardship at the hands of the Zone,

Markov was still spry for a man nearing sixty-two.

Turning a corner, he was greeted with the sound of gunfire. Quickening his pace, he cleared the last

few meters of the hill obscuring his view. Just beyond a rusted out van and a upturned Kamaz

freight truck, two Stalkers were lying in a pool of their own blood. A few meters down the road, two

Dutyers were engaging the guilty party, that is, a pack of three boars.

Usually the entrance to New Petrograd—that was what Duty was calling their base now—was clear

of mutants and a rather peaceful road to travel on, a sort of red carpet leading Dutyers home. Before

Markov had always been impressed and more than a little envious at the thoroughness with which

Duty cleaned their roads, but somehow a pack of Muties had slipped through, and now two Stalkers

—loners by the looks of them—were dead because of it.

Sighing to himself, he pulled out his old Abakan assault rifle, flipped up the integrated double-

barreled grenade launcher sight, and loaded in two Russian 40mm high explosive 'hopping' rifle

grenades. Then he pulled out his specially-tooled fifty-caliber handgun, pointed it at the sky, and

pulled the trigger.

An ear-splitting crack blew the crows out of nearby trees and caused Markov's ears to buzz like a

hive of angry bees. Instantly, the three boars froze and whipped around to face their new adversary,

the two Duty soldiers momentarily forgotten. That was the thing about boars: short attention span.

Deftly flipping the handgun back into its holster and bringing his rifle to bear all in one smooth

motion, Markov braced himself. The boars charged, roaring at him in guttural oinks. Markov stood

his ground, slowly tightening his grip on the barrel of his weapon and counting down from five

under his breath. Three, two, one, now. Suddenly, he lowered his rifle and charged down the hill

toward the marauding hogs, yelling himself hoarse.

Startled by his sudden show of aggression, the pigs abruptly backpedaled, losing their footing on

the loose sod of the hill. Markov knew well that enough sudden aggression, aptly placed, could

cause your enemy—human or animal—to hesitate, giving one the slight advantage needed to gain

the upper hand.

Markov stopped, whipped his rifle up to his shoulder, flipped up the grenade safety, adjusted his

aim and fired both grenades dead center into the herd of hapless peccaries. The grenades exploded

upwards once, then exploded again, sending blood and seared pork in all directions.

The two Dutyers, shell-shocked by Markov's performance, rushed to his side. "How...how did you

do that?" they asked in almost perfect unison. Markov looked closely at the two patrolmen. They

couldn't be more than fourteen years old. By the Zone, they just kept getting younger! Dark haired

and bright eyed, their fresh new uniforms still had creases in them from being freshly washed and

ironed. Both their posture and their lack of muzzle awareness betrayed the fact that they were

rookies, greener than Sidorovich after bad a can of army rations. No wonder those boars had

managed to slip through! Duty was letting greenies patrol the roads! The competition with Duty's

adversary, Freedom, for control of the Pripyat region up north was taking its toll.

"You saved our hides!" one of them was saying breathlessly "Yeah," continued the other one, "We

were done for! How can we ever thank you?"

"It was nothing," Markov was replying distractedly. If Duty needed fighters, then maybe they

would consider hiring him as a hunter to clear their home territory of mutants. Markov had applied

before but he had always received the same answer: no. It wasn't that Duty didn't care about

hunting; quite the opposite: one of Duty's primary goals was to rid the one of mutants from wild

dogs and boars, the more mundane creatures, on up.

The reason was that Duty hated mercenaries, and while Markov was a hunter and not a hired gun

like some of the scum that roamed the Zone, killing for money, his trade still smacked of the

lawlessness and lack of discipline of Mercenaries. Mercs never worked well within strict

parameters, preferring to do things their way, and after a few unsuccessful assault missions that

busted because of lack of discipline and communication on the part of the Mercs, Duty had never

looked back. But now that he had showed his colors by helping out some Duty troops, maybe old

Veronin, the leader of Duty, would cut him some slack. After all, 'the King Tiger' and him went way

back...he turned back to the greenies and smiled in his slow way. "Maybe you can help me with

something after all..."


	3. Strange Tidings

Part 1: Act 3;

Entrance to New Petrograd, Duty Territory, 1807 H, June 7 2013

"No, no, the best part was the look on those Muties faces when he charged them! Those dirty pigs

must have thought he was a Bloodsucker or something, because the lead one opened his eyes so

wide I could see his brain!"

"No way, the best part was..." Markov had been listening to that for—he checked his watch.

Exactly seven minutes. Years spent hanging around in noisy camps full of shouting men and nights

around a campfire spent with the accompaniment of piercing harmonica and soul-wrenching guitar

music had given him the coveted ability to tune out the background noise and focus instead on what

was ahead.

They were nearing the last bend that ended at the gate to New Petrograd, the city of Duty. He had

easily persuaded the two Duty guards—Wassily and Fyoder, twins—to help him get the job as a

hunter for Duty. They were only too glad to help and were now fervently singing his praises as they

approached the entrance to New Petrograd.

The south entrance, a veritable fortress, was heavily fortified to protect against the frequent bands

of mutants that would charge through the far outpost in the garbage and press through to New

Petrograd. It was protected, aside from a concrete bunker converted into a guardhouse and a

detachment of Duty guards, by a deep trench a meter deep and two wide. The trench was lined with

spikes and crossable only by a thin corrugated metal bridge open and exposed from all sides,

making an armed approach dangerous. All and all it was an effective barrier which sent a message

to any would-be raiders that Duty was serious.

"So, how about teaching us how to do that, huh?" Markov, pulled rudely from his musings,

turned to face them gruffly.

"Waste of my time," he said, in a manner that he hoped would end the discussion.

"But we really could learn," said Fyoder, the leader of the two.

"Yeah!" cried his brother Wassily in an excited tone, "Hey, you're a loner, right?" not

waiting for a reply he quickly continued, for fear of being cut off, "So you could take us on as your

apprentices! We could clean your equipment, run errands for you, and back you up if you need it.

After all, three heads are better than one, right?"

"No." Markov said in a low voice with a steely edge to it.

"Why not?" Wassily's high voice cracked with disappointment. Markov sighed deeply

"Because I have no time to babysit a couple of toddlers who don't know a bush from a

Bloodsucker," he said abruptly and continued walking.

"Then teach us," Fyoder said in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper. Markov turned and

looked them both in the eye, one steely-eyed and determined, the other hopeful and pleading.

Markov's lip twitched once, twice, thrice.

"You'd still have to leave Duty," he said, hedging.

"Sure, we weren't planning to stay much longer anyway," Wassily said, excitement rising,

"We were planning to go solo after we finished up our apprenticeship here. Ohhh..." that reminded

him. He stopped suddenly, then looked up at Markov like a child admitting to some wrong, "Uh,

you wouldn't mind paying off our indenturement fee, would you?"

Markov thought it over. "Well, maybe I won't have to. If I get the contract I might just need

two young strong helpers like you to help an old man like me."when Markov saw the light that was

coming into their eyes he hurried to set things straight, "But that's an if, you understand?" suddenly

he smiled and the tension broke.

"All right then. You two report to your Commanding Officer and meet me at the Hundred

Rads at 0600, over?"

"Over, sir!" as they replied cheerfully with mock salutes. Then they passed through the road

block and disappeared into the Duty barracks.

Markov watched them go and then shouldered his pack and approached the wary sentries. He was

thinking about the two boys. Maybe it was time to start teaching again. He shook his head.

Regardless of how badly his last attempt had ended, he should stop blaming himself and move on.

The wounds from two years ago were still deep, but now perhaps, was a chance at healing them. Or

at least making up for his mistakes.

He approached the checkpoint. A grizzled old sergeant and tough-looking giants wearing military

issue helmets with goggles that obscured their faces stood at the entrance, guns ready.

"Halt! What is your business in New Petrograd?" asked Grizzly in a deep Ukrainian rumble.

"I'm here to see your commander about a contract," Markov replied coolly, flicking his eyes

from one man to the next, taking him in.

"Duty doesn't hire Mercenaries," said one of the Giants in a thick German accent, a short

scar on his cheek made him look more belligerent than intimidating.

"I'm not a Mercenary. But I do have skills that may be useful to your clan, seeing the state of

the road I just traveled,"

"You watch your mouth, little man," the second man said. He shouldered over to him and

grasped him by the collar of his suit. Markov wrinkled his nose at the foul stench of sour Vodka that

poured from the man's maw. "Duty doesn't take kindly to smart-mouths who think they can tell us

what to do,"

"I merely wish to have a short drink at the bar and an even shorter talk with your

Commander, but if you insist on detaining me here than I will be on my way," Markov made to

grasp his pack and leave, when suddenly a voice thundered from behind the barrier.

"A-ten-HUT! Duty squad 1-1-3! Fall in on the double!" a swarthy black man in an

Exoskeleton powered his way over wish a soft Pa-chish of hydraulics whenever he took a step. He

was short, but his slightness of stature did nothing to diminish either his incredible strength or

authority. His beard was unique, consisting of a series of vertical stripes that began on one chin and

continued down and around to the other. In his younger days the beard had been a striking ebony,

but now even it was begining to show with specks of gray.

"Sergeant James, how long's it been?" Markov shouted at his old friend.

"It's Lieutenant now!" James shouted back, a smile lighting his face up from ear to ear. "And

its been to long," he said softly, clapping Markov on the shoulder. Seeing Markov so obviously well

acquainted with the Lieutenant, the security group that had been harassing Markov began to shift

uncomfortably. Finally, Grizzly spoke up, his belligerence from a moment before evaporating into

polite humility. He cleared his throat, "Pardon our behavior before, sir. We...we didn't know this

gentleman was a guest—"

"He's not," James interrupted, "He's the most low-down, sneaking, unfavorably mentioned

sonoffa Psy-dog in the whole Zone!" and with this statement he clapped Markov on the shoulder

again, grinning broadly, and led him off down the street in the direction of the 100 Rads Bar with

the three Duty toughs staring after them.

"Thanks for the rescue," Markov said as they walked up the street. New Petrograd was half

of an old Soviet manufacturing complex before the accident, and Duty had taken full advantage of

its numerous warehouses, factory infrastructure, and even its built-in emergency generator. In

addition to access to power and water (pumped from an underground reservoir that had as yet not

been contaminated by radiation) Duty had the luxury of being in control of many of the makings of

a city. This included streets, lights, power lines, water pipes and treatment facilities, as well as tons

of above- and below-ground storage space, making it a haven for Stalkers looking for a sheltered

place to sleep.

"No problem, it was my pleasure," said James, squinting as his eyes caught the reflection of

the sun off the dilapidated exterior of an old vehicle garage that had been converted into a detention

area. That was were Duty held its stock of deserters, bandits, and Freedom POWs while they

awaited execution or, in the case of a Freedom soldier, exchange. Just off of it were the execution

grounds, which boasted two whipping posts and several makeshift gallows. Three corpses which

didn't look human swayed gently in the breeze.

"So, tell me! How on God's backside did you manage to get your stinking carcass

promoted?" asked Markov in his manner of jest.

"Well, the Old Man bought the farm and I decided it was time to apply for command of my platoon,

you know? Get a chance to make a difference around here-" here he broke into a fit of coughing that

strongly resembled the hacking sound made by an old diesel chainsaw starting.

"Hey, take it easy. You all right?"

"Yeah, pulled a long night beating through the brush a couple of days ago. Looking for a

Lance Corporal we'd recruited a few days before. Heard he was one of those Guides—you know,

those guys who map uncharted territories of the Zone?—before he joined up,"

"A deserter?" Markov guessed

"Nope, as far as I know he was on legit business, investigating an old ghost story about a village on

the far side of town,"

"So, what happened?" asked Markov, intrigued by the mystery.

"Well, all I know was that at around o' six hundred hours we get a call he's missing, and then spend

the rest of the day and night night looking for him. Then I spend the next morning in bed hackin'"

he expressed his indignation at the wasted time by spitting with expert precision through a tangle of

barbed wire, hitting the side of a petroleum drum on the other side.

"Well, did you find him?" prompted Markov, eager for him to finish the tale

"Hell, no. In fact, he still hasn't been found. If he does come in, he had better have a good

explanation for all this." James seemed to consider for a moment and then added, "Come to the Bar,

I'll buy you a drink and then it'll be your turn to bore me with stories. God knows how long its been

since I've heard of any good raids around here." Markov accepted and they continued in silence

while he chewed it all over.

In a place where things inexplicable to human minds happened on a regular basis, one missing

soldier wasn't so remarkable, especially since the chance of being kidnapped, killed, or eaten on a

solo raid was so high. But something about the tale captivated him and his mind began turning the

problem over and over in his mind, like an intricate three-dimensional puzzle which could only be

solved by prolonged observation. They entered the rusted remains of a large warehouse. Sunlight

fell in shafts through holes in the ceiling eaten away by rust, and two young duty guards with ready

guns watched them as they advance to the other side.

In the center there was a blacked fuel drum filled with bracken which burned brightly and crackled

delightfully, as if inviting the two old friends to sit down and relax in its heat. Markov silently

promised to visit the welcome fire before he left and turned to follow the Lieutenant out the double

swinging doors into sunlight.

He closed one eye and squinted with the other until they adjusted to the bright sun on the other side.

Here, on the other side of the perimeter, Stalkers of all shapes and sizes made their way through the

streets. Mostly Duty orderlies and such, but here was a group of workmen pouring some quick-

drying cement to reinforce the wall of decaying watchtower; there was a group of hunters who were

packing for a raid, and group of arena gladiators milling around the fight office, chewing tobacco

and spitting periodically into a rusted old food tin. In the dimness of another distant warehouse-

barracks, a group of rookies huddled around a warm flame, singing and laughing and taking turns

with a worn out guitar, there sweet music pouring forth and somehow brightening the day.

They turned another corner into a small T-shaped building. The left exits snaked back around

towards Duty headquarters, but the right was by far more popular, with streams of Stalkers pouring

through it at all times of day or night. The gate guard, dressed in a beige jacket that had seen better

days and carrying an old Soviet Makarov pistol, hailed them and saluted Lieutenant James.

Following the well worn paving stones out and around, James opened the door and ushered Markov

in. Their boots clomped loudly on the thick concrete steps as they descended into the One Hundred

Rads Bar, the most famous and revered watering holes in whole of the Zone.

The young officer at the counter nodded curtly and relieved them of their weapons—Markov of his

rifle and a few hand grenades and James of his Groza assault rifle. They were, as a matter of

dignity, allowed to carry in their sidearms and knifes, provided they kept them unloaded and

properly sheathed. It would be seen as a act of supreme disgrace to be stripped completely of

weapons, something done only to a prisoner of war or a surrendering commander.

"Sir!" said the young man as they were leaving, "Message from the General. He wants to see you

ASAP,"

"Well, it's about time!" Lieutenant James exclaimed to Markov, "You'll have to take a rain check on

that drink. Come with me, we can catch up on the way there,"


	4. A Job

Part 1: Act 4;

Duty HQ, New Petrograd, Duty Territory, 1829 H, June 7 2013

The inticing smell of roasting pork hit Markov full in the face as James and a young corporal

escorted him into Duty's underground headquarters. Originally a storage basement and utility

control, Duty had converted it into a very cozy underground base, complete with barracks, an

armory, store rooms, and long-range radio communication systems.

The HQ was situated in one of the two main underground storage facilities that lay underneath New

Petrograd. The other was the Bar itself, which was connected to the HQ, the generator room, and

several above ground warehouses through a series of connective corridors. Mostly used for storage

of radio-sensitive apparatus and a safe place to keep perishable items like food and gasoline safe,

the bunker did have one other use: to keep Duty's higher-ups out of easy reach of assassins or

mutants.

After passing through the Great Room, a large open area that was part kitchen, part ready room and

part trophy hall, the corporal lead Markov through a small corridor at the rear of the facility. Several

open doors swung out into the hall, and by peering inside Markov could catch glimpses of activity

from within; two colonels hunched over a map moving pins while a radio man fed them reports

from the field, an armorer cleaning a sniper rifle, and two burly sergeants unsealing a hefty crate.

At the end of the hallway stood a large steel door. Industrial strength and obviously a designed to

hermetically seal whatever was behind it, the door had been restored to functional use, having had

its rust removed and its inner locking mechanism repaired in order to bring it back to some level of

functionality. Markov hazarded a guess to James that the door had come from one of the various

Soviet labs scattered around the Zone.

"Well, that's were you'd be wrong," said James, a hint of unit pride coming into his voice. Markov

braced himself for a long and tedious story of brave actions against Duty's main rival, Freedom, in

order to secure a vital piece of equipment necessary to the continuation of the Glorious Faction of

Duty and so on.

"Actually, we found this particular door in a bomb shelter just off of the Agroprom Research

Institute. Just south of that irradiated Gate. You know the one; the one we tried to breach together

when we were kids?" Markov laughed. He and James went way back; they had met as two scared

but excited rookies who had received a very important mission from Sidorovich. Or so they had

thought: it turned out they had been sent on a wild goose chase in order to fool some Raiders who

were after Sidorovich's supply lines. Disguised as experienced agents of trade, the two had ended up

fighting off hordes of expectant raiders while the real tradesmen had completed their mission scum-

free. Sidorovich had explained himself, through pompous gasps of surprise, that he 'knew they

could handle it'.

James and a Duty orderly assigned to them huddled around a tiny keypad—a security luxury—

while they hurriedly punched in a secret entrance code. Markov debated with himself whether or

not he ought to raise his six-foot-two frame above the noticeably slighter forms of James and the

young sergeant in order to discern the code, but thought better of it and kept his distance.

The door unlocked with a loud clunk and the two Dutyers strained to turn the large silver wheel in

order to open the vault-like aperture. Finally managing it, (Markov learned later that the door was

designed to need two people in order to open it for security reasons) the trio entered an antechamber

where they were inspected by a team of rough-looking Duty sentries—or, at least Markov was

inspected, as the other two obviously held a rank that entitled them to a cursory glance at their

various medals and badges and an impatient wave through.

Fifteen wasted minutes later, Markov rejoined James. Another orderly escorted them through a thick

wooden door, and they were in. Before their very eyes stood a living legend, the Patriarch of Duty,

Brigadier General Veronin. Of less general importance but with undiminished significance in

Markov's mind were none other than young Wassily and Fyoder, receiving a blistering dressing-

down from Veronin's chief of staff, Vlad Distervoch.

"No, no, No! it wasn't enough that two Stalkers we needed actually died, it wasn't enough to soil

Duty's solid reputation of protecting Stalkers from Mutants. It wasn't even that surprising that you

let the rest of the pack escape, being as young and inexperienced as you are, but to desert your post

is unthinkable. No soldier is to desert, ever."

the man stopped his tirade long enough to catch a breath. He refocused his gaze on the boys, not

bothering to conceal is disgust. He began speaking very slowly and precisely, in the manner that

civilized men use when they are angry but wish remain in control of themselves, "Your formal

court-martial will begin at 0600 tomorrow, and, if you are pronounced guilty, you will be executed

promptly by hanging. The sergeant-at-arms will show you to your cells for the night. Dismissed" he

turned and left without further comment.

The two young men, dazed and clearly shocked at this sudden turn of events, began to shuffle out

the door to the waiting sergeant when Markov grasped one of them—Fyoder, he thought—and

winked conspiratorially. Suddenly, hope caught fire in their eyes, and ashen faces hardened and

glowed with renewed vigor.

"It was me," said Markov to the General, who was busy looking through some papers on his desk.

"What?" said the General, clearly annoyed at being interrupted. He had to remove his reading

glasses before he recognized them, "Oh, yes! Lieutenant James! And Masterhunter Markov! How

long has it been? Four years? Five?" Markov had met Veronin when he was only a hunter, before he

had earned his established reputation as one of the best mutant-killers in the Zone. He had helped

Duty before and had developed a fondness for them and what they stood for: order, justice, and

ultimately the destruction of what he personally felt was a menace to the world, the Zone itself.

Unfortunately he became disillusioned with Duty when he found that they preferred petty rivalries

and turf wars to action, and had never joined up. Over the years he became something of a Duty

fanboy and had admired their exploits from a distance. But now, he reminded himself, there was a

chance to fulfill his dream of helping Duty secure the Zone, by using his expertise to actually fulfill

one of their highest goals: killing Mutants.

"So, men! How can I help you?" Veronin was medium build, with a receding hairline cut in the

military fashion, and a lined face that came from many hard years of transition from a cushy job in

the Russian Military to a hard life of field command in the Zone.

"Sir, I did it," Markov stared into space, oddly focusing on the worn bayonet that Veronin always

kept on his hip.

"Did what? I am afraid I don't understand"

Markov explained the reason for the boys' 'desertion' and took full responsibility for their actions.

He concluded uneasily, shuffling back and forth in a vain attempt to shrug off his embarrassment

and shame at his thoughtless action.

"Sir, this may come at a bad time, but I wanted to ask you: would you consider, as a deeply personal

favor for all we've been through together, hiring me as an auxiliary to Duty's forces?" he put this

last bit carefully. Despite their past comradeship, Veronin had his faction to look out for and the last

thing he needed was accusations of special treatment. Markov had to phrase it so it sounded more

like joining Duty rather than being hired by them as a mercenary. On the other hand, he couldn't

very well join up as a regular; even if he would have the freedom to choose what assignments he

would have and when and where he should hunt—which he would most certainly not—he wouldn't

be able to leave when the job was finished. Markov didn't much fancy being stuck with Duty into

his old age, he had mutants to kill; on his schedule and no one else's.

"So, let me get this straight, you want me, the General of Duty, to issue an executive order

recruiting and promoting you a position allow allowing you, Markov, a Mercenary—",

"Ahum,"Markov coughed quietly, "Masterhunter,"

"—Mercenary," Veronin continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, "To clear our roads of Mutants

and maybe even teach our rookies how its done. Then, when its all over, you want me to officially

discharge you honorably from Duty so you can go your merry way. That's all, yes?" Veronin was

smiling now, and so was Markov.

"Well, I was thinking you would promote me to Major and give me a division or two, and then

make me honorary field commander for Duty so I can institute some well-needed changes around

here..." Now James was catching on to the game, and laughingly added his opinion

"Don't forget, Markov!" he was chuckling madly, "You'll have to arrange to have your equipment

taken care of and upgraded at Duty's expense, and of course you'll have to 'be fed to reasonable

standards', which in your case means steak and caviar!" the whole office echoed with laughter as

the three men continued in their ridiculous game of arranging Markov's recruitment. When the

laughter finally died down, Veronin had tears of mirth in his eyes as he wrote down the particulars

for Markov's short but undeniably effective stint with Duty.

"Now, Markov," said Veronin, serious now, "I called our ever-faithful Lieutenant down here in

order to get a report on the situation with our wayward Lance Corporal; he goes by the name of

Mitay,"

"Yes, I've been briefed,"

"Well then, you may or may not know he was found about an hour ago, We just received the

message via our new long-range transmitter," Here he tapped a small radio set on his desk, "Turns

out somehow he landed in the Cordon. Sidorovich took care of him, said he was beat up real bad,"

"Bandits?" Markov guessed.

"No, he wasn't hurt, although he lost his equipment. It seems he was driven mad by his experience,

keeps babbling about trapped Bloodsuckers and new Anomalies or something. Since I'm making

you a Captain until you want out, its going to be your job to find out what happened and to see if

you can verify his story. Oh, and if its true about this new Anomaly, I want a full report, what its

does, what it looks like, where its hides, and," he said, with a glint of steel in his eye, "What

Artefacts it produces. Oh, and one more thing—since you caused those poor rookies to get charged

with desertion, your going to be commanding them as your squad," Veronin looked awfully pleased

with himself, taking care of all his minor problems in one fell swoop.

"What, your not putting this favor up to an old and respected friendship?" Markov faked a pouty

face

"Ha. I'm giving you an M40, you know, that American sniper rifle, so don't complain. Now,

dismissed, both of you! I have got to get back to work!" and so, smiling from ear to ear, the

company parted. As they strode out of the bunker and into the last remnants of warm afternoon sun,

Markov turned to Lieutenant James, a harsh look on his face, like that of a of drill officer addressing

a slovenly private.

"You! Clean up that act! Chest out, back straight! A-bout face! Forward march, hup-to hup-to hup-to!"

Markov's face broke into a lopsided smile; rank was sweet. James wasn't impressed with

Markov's new-found leadership skills.

"Not even funny,"he said as they headed off toward the bar, suit hissing as he walked.


End file.
